Patterns on a Blade
by girlfromgraz
Summary: Just some banter between Falka and Vilkas as they stop for camp one night.


At nightfall, the two warriors came upon an abandoned camp. With an audible sigh, Falka let her backpack drop to the ground. "I could kill for some food," she declared.

Vilkas kicked the cold ashes of the small campfire with his boot. "This had a tripod for a pot last time I was here." He cast a searching look around.

"Over there." Falka pointed at a metallic construction half-buried under the snow some distance away.

Crossing the space with a few strides, Vilkas pulled it out from underneath the snow. "Ah, yes, that's the one."

Together, they erected the tripod over the fire pit. Vilkas gave the construction one last good jolt, making sure it once again stood firmly. Then he set to chopping the few logs lying around the camp while Falka set out to collect some more firewood so the fire would last the night.

When she returned in the last light of day, she found Vilkas sitting at the set but not-yet-burning campfire, his back propped up against a huge tree trunk and honing his sword. The two little rabbits they'd hunted earlier the day had been skinned and cleared and lay next to the fire site.

"You're back." Vilkas put his sword down and got up. "Can you light the fire?"

"Sure." Within an instant, a small ball of fire danced on her open palm. Casually, she flicked her wrist and the fire rose to the tip of her raised index finger. "How hot do you want it?"

His gaze followed her movements, noticing they way her hips moved as she took step after step his way. His left eyebrow rose high as he took up her challenge. "How hot can you make it?"

"You would be surprised." Falka tried to fake nonchalance.

Noticing the slight hitch in her voice, Vilkas stepped closer, invading her personal space. "Would I?" He deliberately deepened his voice, catching her eyes with his. "I've seen much."

Falka tore her gaze from Vilkas' face, concentrating on the flame. The small ball grew larger.

"It should last you through the night, though," Vilkas found himself reasoning.

"I could make it last much longer than that."

"Just make it enough to warm you. Unless…" A faint grin broke through his hard features. "You want to freeze like last night."

"I certainly was not freezing!" Falka protested.

Vilkas gave her a challenging look and lowered his face until it was only a hand's width away from hers. "So that was just for my benefit, then?" he asked, his voice low. "How considerate. Thank you."

A muscle in Falka's face twitched. A whooshing noise, and the stack of firewood he had prepared was burning happily.

"You have got no idea, wolf," she grumbled and stalked off to prepare the rabbits.

* * *

"You haven't even used your sword today," Falka commented once she had the rabbits sizzling over the fire together with a handful of potatoes.

"No, I haven't," Vilkas, having returned to honing his huge, two-handed sword, agreed. He felt her gaze on him, following the movements of his hands.

"If you are thinking about talking me into using greatswords again – forget it."

He cast her a brief glance, pausing the whetstone just underneath the sword's hilt. A faint smirk tugged at his lips, and he lowered his eyes back towards his work again. "Nah," he drawled, and slid the whetstone along the blade again. "I've given up on that long ago."

"Finally," Falka sighed, over-emphasizing her relief as she slumped down on the ground next to him. "I thought you never would."

Vilkas put down his whetstone to hand her one of bottles from their beer reserves. They exchanged a silent toast. With a content sigh, Falka took a deep draught.

Never taking his eyes off the woman next to him, Vilkas followed Falka's example. "You wouldn't even be able to lift it anyhow," he dead-panned once he'd put his bottle down again.

Falka leaned slightly closer, staring into eyes the colour of steel. "You have got no idea."

Vilkas could feel her breath on his face. "Don't I?" For a moment, he let his dare stand between them as he studied her. Abruptly, he jerked the huge sword up with one smooth motion. With a twist of his arm, he sent it rotating along its longitudinal axis for emphasis before again halting the movement with one strong grasp on the hilt. The blade, raised high between them, glittered in the waning light.

Falka didn't even bother to acknowledge his show-off. Instead, she focused on studying the craftsmanship of the weapon. Vilkas watched her closely as her gaze swept over the bare steel. Her fingers ghosted over the intricate patterns Eorlund had etched into the blade and hilt. She made a show to breathe against the blank surface of the metal, fogging it for a few moments.

"Ria's going to try it," he informed her, drawing her gaze to his face again. He swapped the sword from one hand to the other.

Falka nodded knowingly. Vilkas was satisfied to notice that, yes, the mentioning of Ria's name did stir something inside the woman sitting only an arm's length away from him. "'nd how is she doing?"

"Well enough, well enough," he mock-sighed, taking time to carefully over-enunciate every vowel. He lowered the sword, placing it on the ground next to him. "The lass is quick, eager to please and improve her own performance," he informed her, taking care to pick exactly those words as he shifted his attention back to Falka. With no bladen barrier between them, there wasn't much distance left.

"Good for her. Wouldn't bear to think about what would happen if she were less prepared," Falka retorted. "You know, if she ever gets close to defeating you in combat…" She didn't finish her thought.

Vilkas took a deliberately slow gulp from his beer, then prompted her. "Yes?"

Falka huffed a laugh, returning to the presence. With her index finger, she wiped at Vilkas' warpaint, smudging the colour even further. "At least she seems to like it." Falka stabbed at Vilkas' nose with her dirtied finger. His reaction – an angry growl – made her giggle.

"'s warpaint, meant to put fear in your enemies," Vilkas grumbled, pulling away from her. "Everyone wears it, even you."

"Mine's a tattoo, wolf. It doesn't come off." The slight shift in Falka's demeanour wasn't lost on Vilkas. But it was gone in the blink of an eye, replaced by a mischievous glint in her eye. "You know, I sometimes pity the poor girl."

"Ria? What for?"

"For fighting a lost cause, of course."

"Obviously, so am I."

Falka laughed. "What can I say – your warpaint scares everyone off."


End file.
